What would chaos actually look like?

[Mikebert]

(02-19-2017, 10:39 PM)Craig Wrote: Ever since I was in high school it seems Boomers have been clamoring that things would lead to chaos. They'll say, "There would be chaos if people did whatever they wanted". They claim that there would be chaos if people went naked in public, that there would be chaos if girls were allowed to show their navels in class, that there would be chaos if kids were allowed to keep their hats on in class, that there would be chaos if marijuana were legal, that there would be chaos if people were allowed to scream if they were angry, or even, "There would be chaos if men could marry other men".

Chaos is clearly the bogeyman of Boomer and Joneser social conservatives. So I wonder, what exactly would this hypothetical "chaos" they speak of look like if it were to finally break out? People running in all firections screaming and bumping into each other while fire broke out and demons and giant worms came out of the middle of the Earth? It's hard to picture...and would things really be this terrible?

It's odd because when Boomers and Jonesers were raising us Gen-Yers they didn't teach us to value "order" or to fear "chaos". It seemed to start when Gen-Yers got into high school.

This question is especially for you Boomer and Joneser conservatives. What exactly are you so afraid of happening? -Craig

An answer was given nearly a century ago.

    Turning and turning in the widening gyre
    The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
    Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
    Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
    The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
    The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
    The best lack all conviction, while the worst
    Are full of passionate intensity.
    Surely some revelation is at hand;
    Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
    The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
    When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
    Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
    A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
    A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
    Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
    Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
    The darkness drops again but now I know
    That twenty centuries of stony sleep
    Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
    And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
    Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?